There Aren't Enough Doctors In Africa. Those

I Don't Think We Have All The Words In A Single Vocabulary To Explain What We Are Or Why We Are. I Don't Think We Have The Range Of Emotion To Fully Feel What Someone Else Is Feeling. I Don't Think Any Of Us Can Sit In Judgment Of Another Human Being. We're Incomplete Creatures, Barely Scraping By. Is It Possible--from The Perspective Of This Quickly Spinning Earth And Our Speedy Journey From Crib To Coffin--to Know The Difference Between Right, Wrong, Good, And Evil? I Don't Know If It's Even Useful To Try.

There's A Point At Which Writing A Book, Or A Long Article, Begins To Feel Like Mental Labor, And It's Too Painful To Connect In The World In Any Real Way Mid-process. The Only Way To Survive Is To Write Until It Is All Said And Done.

The Land Itself, Of Course, Was Careless Of Its Name. It Still Is. You Can Call It What You Like, Fight All The Wars You Want In Its Name. Change Its Name Altogether If You Like. The Land Is Still Unblinking Under The African Sky. It Will Absorb White Man's Blood And The Blood Of African Men, It Will Absorb Blood From Slaughtered Cattle And The Blood From A Woman's Birthing With Equal Thirst. It Doesn't Care.

Until I Read Anne Frank's Diary, I Had Found Books A Literal Escape From What Could Be The Harsh Reality Around Me. After I Read The Diary, I Had A Fresh Way Of Viewing The Both Literature And The World. From Then On, I Found I Was Impatient With Books That Were Not Honest Or That Were Trivial And Frivolous.

There Aren't Enough Doctors In Africa. Those Who Choose To Become Doctors Here Don't Do It For The Money Or Because They Want To Do Good. They Do It Because They Have To Heal, The Way Most People Need To Breathe Or Eat Or Love.